


Rider, Rider

by Enisy



Category: South Park
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Inappropriate Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23935870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enisy/pseuds/Enisy
Summary: Tweek and Craig brave pestilence, war, famine and death – at least metaphorically – and pass four relationship milestones in the process.
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	Rider, Rider

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round 18 of [Gen Prompt Bingo](https://genprompt-bingo.dreamwidth.org/).

I. PESTILENCE

“Are they still out there?”

Craig craned his neck toward the window, even as his thumb went on mashing the X button. He wasn’t too concerned about the threat unfolding on the street – and besides, that beef burger wasn’t gonna chop itself. His knee, which had been rubbing against Tweek’s, broke contact due to the sudden torque and sank into the couch. After a moment, he returned his attention to the screen.

“Yep,” he replied dispassionately.

“Nngh,” the blond boy fretted. “I can’t take it anymore!”

“Tweek, calm down.”

“But we haven’t left the house in days!” he exclaimed. “How can they keep _standing_ there?” Jitters seemed to creep all over his body, like rats let loose in a derelict condo. “Is this – gah! Is this gonna be forever?”

Lightning-fast, without warning, he made a lunge for the coffee pot. Craig just barely managed to bat his hand away.

“Tweek, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“How can you _say_ that? Stan had to go to the hospital after catching cooties from Wendy! They’re going to amputate his leg.”

Craig winced a little. “That’s… anecdotal evidence.”

“Grr! But! The news said 76% of the town’s male students are infected, and the number’s growing exponentially!”

“Okay,” Craig reasoned, “but you and I are safe from this cootie infestation.”

“ _No we’re not!_ ”

“Yes we are. We’re gay, remember?”

He thought this explanation was quite clever – but it did not pass muster with Tweek, who gave him a look so hopeless, so anxious and so devastated, that Craig began to question himself again. The sheer madness of the situation hit him square in the chest, as it had on day one, and he had to pause the game to catch his breath, citing volume control. Were they gay? Were they really? His dad believed the Japanese had made them so – but inside, Craig still felt the same.

At some point, his knee had reclaimed its previous position, resting comfortably against Tweek’s. Angry, scared, disgusted, he put a stop to it by swinging his leg off the couch.

Silence.

Their avatars ran around in full panic mode, dicing shrimp, dropping plates and dousing fires, but the boys sat very still beside each other.

When the level was done – two stars, fucking _embarrassing_ , if Token were to find out he would emboss it on their fucking _tombstones_ – Craig sought a neutral object to look at, and settled on a loose thread in the upholstery. It was half an inch long. Purple. Curved slightly inward, like a question mark… and then it was gone, eclipsed by Tweek’s hand, lying there warm and open and inviting.

They were alone. There were no townspeople to bully them into a romance. There was no mitigating factor. No reason to pretend. And yet, Craig took it, as the sun set outside and the girls ran riot in the town, scanning Chinpokomon Go for the elusive Biebersaurus.

II. WAR

It was supposed to be a simple mission. In and out. Craig and Tweek had three directives to fulfil:

  1. Find the special operatives.
  2. Request their services, offering your allowance as payment if needed.
  3. Don’t blow your cover.



The last one was proving more challenging than expected. Cartman had assured them that, to infiltrate the pride parade, they just had to: “Be gay. Do your gay thing. Hold hands and shit. Craig, suck on his earlobe.” He hadn’t mentioned there would be a _dress code._ Now they found themselves surrounded by rainbow shirts, fake eyelashes, feather boas and parasols, while they shuffled along in their plain school clothes.

“ACK!” mewled Tweek, as a seminude, stout, bearlike fellow gave them a thumbs-up.

For once, Craig thought Tweek had good reason to spaz out. By joining the parade, they had officially entered enemy territory. (Craig’s Gang, like Stan’s, was at odds with the adults ever since the latter had confiscated the Stick of Truth.) Life in the trenches was… rough. The smells – oh God, the _sounds_ would stay with Craig forever. The ground was slick with food and litter, and towering bodies blocked all light.

Although he kept a tight grip on Tweek’s hand, he could tell the Enemy wasn’t fooled, throwing them curious glances at every turn. There was no telling what would happen if they were found out. It was for that reason, and for that reason alone, that Craig stilled Tweek with a hand on his hip and kissed him for the first time ever.

Harrowing.

Not long after, Tweek injured his ankle after slipping on some sperm confetti, and Craig had to support his weight with one shoulder. His jacket was soaked with all sorts of foul liquids, and Tweek vibrated beside him like a kitchen timer. Minutes felt like hours… hours felt like days.

He could hardly believe his eyes when they finally scoped out their target.

“Let me go.”

“No, I’ll go.”

“I’ll go!”

With trembling hands, Craig held out his bow to the uniformed men. “Can you fix it?”

“Oh! You’ve got it, cutie,” said the buff one with the pierced nipple. Indeed, he made quick work of the bowstring, his fingers moving with practiced ease, tying a knot at each end.

And it was done – just like that.

Craig cracked a rare smile, while next to him, Tweek was struggling to hold back tears. Craig gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. Now Feldspar the Thief had repaired his bow, they could leave this life of carnage and go back to searching for the Stick of Truth. The war was over.

He thanked the men in monotone and – once they’d put some distance between themselves and the crowd – vented his excitement by grabbing his boyfriend’s collar, pulling him close, and kissing his mouth again… which felt better this time, felt _nice_.

The knots came undone halfway to the Tuckers’ home, though, causing Tweek to lament, “I _knew_ those guys weren’t real sailors.”

III. FAMINE

Craig couldn’t suppress a groan when his boyfriend returned from the kitchen empty-handed.

“Dude, nothing?” he asked, to which Tweek shook his head sadly. “ _Nothing_? This is the fourth time this week!”

“I know, man,” Tweek replied, slumping on the bed, where Craig had already put down roots – his hair grazing the headboard, his limbs splayed out across the entire mattress, breadth and length.

Every afternoon around this time, Tweek would steal downstairs and squirrel any snacks left over from his parents’ shift: a croissant, a cupcake, the occasional brownie. He and Craig would curl up in bed and toss them off while watching television. It had become a routine for them – a ritual.

Alas, business at Tweek Bros. Coffeehouse had been booming lately, and all the pastries were sold out by day’s end. Fucking _daft_. Especially since Craig had the distinct impression that he was to blame. (This shift had occurred approximately when he began dropping Tweek off after school.)

“Do you still – _eek_ – wanna watch Red Racer?”

“Nah,” said Craig, surprising both Tweek and himself. Red Racer was peerless, sacrosanct; he’d never turned it down before. “It’s not the same,” he explained feebly.

“Yeah.” His boyfriend knit his brow. “Yeah, you’re right…”

They were quiet for a while, Tweek swinging his feet in the air, Craig staring at the ceiling with his arms folded behind his head. Idle. Lost in thought.

“What can we do then, Craig?” Tweek burst, already dialing it up to eleven. Hyperventilating. _Jesus_ , thought Craig, somewhat fondly, _not a dull moment with this guy._ “We can’t – ARGH! All afternoon activities require snacks. Except Double Dragon Neon, and we finished that yesterday! I’m so hungry! I need sugar, and –” Tweek’s fingers carded through his hair, refining his patented just-out-of-bed look. “There’s nothing left to do!”

Craig lifted his head from the pillow. Looked at the boy thoughtfully – the pretty flush of his cheeks, the swatch of bare clavicle at his neckline. “I can think of some things,” he said carefully.

Tweek blinked at him.

It was strange and it was hurried, with Craig randomly trying out things he’d seen in porn – like sticking his fingers in Tweek’s mouth to keep him from screaming, or smacking his ass, or calling him “baby.” Craig thought – hoped, on some level – that it might be out of his system when they finished. How wrong he was. Tweek pawed at the spaceship on Craig’s duvet, then went on to fiddle with the robot on his bedside table, adorable the way he had to keep himself busy all the time, like an astronaut on the ISS. The curtains cast a rectangular shadow across his thighs. There was no stopping this hunger.

IV. DEATH

The funeral guests were running off at the mouth, touching on virtually every topic _but_ the deceased.

“Oh my god, is that Towelie? He’s put on some moisture around the middle…”

“My parents keep saying my life will turn around when I find Jesus, but I swear, that dude is better hidden than Waldo.”

“You’re kidding! _You_ own the original _Tongue in Tweek_? I’ll trade you my _Easy Breezy Daisy Boizu_. It’s framed and everything.”

Tweek said little – in Craig’s estimation he barely even twitched, his hands folded solemnly in front of him. They both looked downcast as Tricia lowered the tiny body into the ground, but they didn’t cry. There was a grief so profound it disabled the tear ducts. Above them, around them, the sky was blue and irradiated, with a contrail through the middle, like the signature to a half-written letter.

The universe didn’t seem to want their mourning on this day. It preferred the gossip.

“Stripe #2 was the best of the lot. Low maintenance, like my husband – he just ate, slept and masturbated.”

“This is some good shit, man… you sure you don’t want a toke?”

The chatter only abated when Tweek approached the makeshift grave and pivoted to face the assembly.

“Stripe was – I mean, Stripe #4 – grr –” He had to restart the eulogy a couple of times. Once he’d found his groove, though, he carried it out masterfully, all the way to the end. “When I bought Stripe, Craig and I were in a fake relationship.” He waited for the crowd’s boos, wails and primal screams to play out. “Yeah, erk – we kind of deserve that! We shouldn’t have fabricated so much shit… but you all were _really_ into the idea, and we didn’t want to bum you out. Anyway, I got him for Craig back when we were still molding this quote-unquote relationship… inventing couple-y things to do. Stripe #3 had just died, and we were passing by a pet shop, and there were only guinea pigs in the window display, and buying presents seemed like a Gay Boyfriend Thing to do. I don’t think Laura was very pleased.” Craig’s mom flipped Tweek the bird, grinning. Tweek returned the smile, if not the gesture, and carried on: “Stripe was cute, but I’d never had a pet, and I was so nervous – hnngh – I didn’t even touch him until, like, _two months_ later. By then, Stripe and I had spent so much time together that the contact felt – err – simple. Perfunctory. And that was me and Craig, too, I realized – thrown in at the deep end of the pool and having only to paddle to the shallows. A few days later, I finally got the courage to talk to him about what we were doing.” He was running out of steam, Craig could tell, but he brought the saga to a happy conclusion: “And so, and so even if Stripe is gone, he has shaped… is still shaping my life. Thanks, buddy.”

The guests applauded, genuinely moved, as Tweek returned to his boyfriend’s side. He was smiling with pleasure. Relief. _Confidence_. The sight ratcheted up Craig’s heartbeat; suddenly he felt a bit possessive, had to fight off the urge to say _I taught him that, I saw him first, fuck off, he’s mine_. Instead, he glanced away uneasily. Slung an arm around Tweek’s waist and – without fanfare, without even thinking about it – said “Love ya, babe.”

Tweek seemed taken aback. “Craig… I…” His mouth jerked in a watery smile, and he leaned against his boyfriend’s shoulder, eking out: “Yeah.”

V. JFC

Craig and Tweek waited for the last couple of guests to depart before making their way across the yard. The sun was still beating down on them mercilessly, and they dragged their feet slightly, not willing the ceremony to end. The Tuckers’ mailbox was already spilling over with sheets of paper; a couple of their Asian schoolmates had been invited to the funeral, and the rest had no doubt observed it from Twitter or the panopticon of their brain. Craig cringed a little at the thought of the fanart awaiting them this time: _Love, Loss and Rodent_ , perhaps, or _Perfect_ _Cinnamon Rolls UwU_.

The pair hadn’t quite made it to the kitchen door when they were suddenly accosted by a strange man… wearing a red-striped shirt and glasses. He straight up _jumped_ them from behind a juniper bush, where he had been hiding.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” yelped Tweek.

“In the flesh,” said the Son of God, instantly shedding his disguise. “Well spotted, my child.”

Craig was not religious, and he did not take kindly to people fertilizing the acreage of anxieties his boyfriend had seeded. “What do you want?”

“You don’t know?” Jesus tilted his head. “I appear before you, children, because, through your noble needs, you have slain the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.” From his tunic he produced a crumpled list which he read off – ostensibly for the first time:

_Pestilence they survived – through cootie resistance_

_Famine was a flop, Tweek and Craig went the distance_

_The two boys untangled the snarled knot of War_

_And talked circles round Death and gave it what-for_

He put away the list and looked at them expectantly.

Craig tried to signal Tweek with his eyes – _dude, is he for real?_ – but the latter’s gaze was darting around like the censor bar in a Japanese porn video.

“Okay, so, what do we get?” sighed Craig, deciding to play ball.

“Two tickets for this year’s Comic Con,” said Jesus. Before the boys could get too excited about this prospect, he held up a finger. “But first, my children, you must confess your sins.”

Craig gave an incredulous huff; he could see where this was going. His boyfriend must have had the same suspicion, because he began flailing like a teetotaler at Oktoberfest. Craig had to twist his fingers in his sleeve to ground him.

“Go on, then!”

Neither boy spoke.

Even in his infinite patience, the Son of God was getting peevish. He snapped: “Did you, or did you not, at some point, call your mother – who you are supposed to _honor and cherish_ according to the Bible – a _bitch_?”

The silence walked the tightrope. The silence juggled anvils.

“ _That_ is a sin most dire, children, and it’s the reason I must extract a confession from you.”

Tweek couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Nngh, MAN, why didn’t you say so EARLIER?” he exploded. “I thought it was because we’re HOMOSEXUAL!”

Craig and Tweek stared at Jesus Christ.

Jesus Christ stared at them.

Several cars passed by, one of which honked for a cat to get off the street. A door opened and closed nearby, setting off the sound of a wind chime. The silence dropped an anvil on its feet.

“Come to think of it,” said Jesus, mostly to himself, “I saw some fanart of you in my church before the New Kid moved in, didn’t I? Father Maxi was… keeping it for a friend.” He shot them both finger guns. “ _Super_ cute.”

The Son of God smiled at them lovingly, beatifically, like a baker gazing upon the most _perfect_ pair of muffins his oven had brought into existence – then he retracted the tickets anyway and vanished from sight.

What a dick.

V. CODA

A few more sins were committed that day when Craig took Tweek upstairs and rewarded them both with a private rendition of Comic Con – because they were never too old for costumes, and because nary a youth pastor, no matter how pious, could resist Tweek’s butt decorated with an imp’s gently swishing tail. Afterwards, he looked out of the window, at the moon just barely there against the pale sky, and the trees, and the houses with their blinking yellow lights.

The riders were dead; let the horses run free.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [enisywrites](https://enisywrites.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come on over if you want to drop me a prompt or a question, or to just say hi!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic: 'Rider, Rider' by Enisy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24312292) by [peasina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasina/pseuds/peasina)




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